


Identity Control

by ashkatom



Series: FBaTNverse [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Helmsman!Kink, M/M, Quadrant Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Psiionic has post-death identity issues, Sufferer takes issue with those issues, and Dualscar is shamelessly roped in to mediate - for certain values of "mediate," anyway. Features shameless quadrant vacillation, Psi's inability to de-escalate a situation at all, Dualscar trying very hard to ignore his quadrant partners' exhibitionist tendencies since someone has to solve the damn problem, and Handmaid as quite possibly The Worst Moirail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity Control

You are the luckiest idiot the world has ever known.

It’s not like you don’t know that. Opportunities have always created themselves for you and you’ve never had to try particularly hard in order to get something you want. Karcin has always been the exception to that, though; he makes you trip over your own feet with how much you’ve always wanted him. You don’t remember a time of _not_ wanting him. He’s the bearings you use to find your way and your best friend and sometimes this strange creature that you cannot understand at all; he makes you want to be _better_ and leads by example and doesn’t hate you when you can’t live up to his standards, and all you have ever wanted or could ever want is to hold him in your heart and have a place in his.

Things have changed - he has scars on his wrists and you accidentally text with your brain sometimes - but this is one thing that never will.

“I missed you,” you say, nuzzling into his throat. You’re in his pile because it’s the most comfortable place either of you could think of on short, distracted notice, your hands on his back and his weight in your lap. You still don’t believe you get to touch him, even though you’ve all settled into a comfortable routine. You still don’t believe that your luck is _this_ good, so you’re going to say everything you can while you have the chance. And if it turns out that you really do get KC, and this isn’t a cruel cosmic joke, it’s not like telling him how much he means to you is a bad thing.

You feel his smile against your cheekbone and press your hands more firmly against his back, sliding up until you find the bare skin of his shoulders. You can feel his breath hitch at your touch and it sets off a burning in your chest, an energy not unlike the feel of psionics routing through you. “Seriously,” you add, because you want him to believe you. He’s always been slightly incredulous of your sincerity, which you guess is half the problem, and you don’t know what you can do except reassure him in every touch and word. The only person you’ve ever loved half as much as him is Disciple, and she’s always been able to see right through you.

“I know,” he says, his voice calm and hinting at a laugh, and you can feel yourself falling to happy little pieces. His hands trail up your neck until they cup your jaw, warm and firm. For all he gets nervous about sex, sometimes, he’s always been good at the feelings; something that made you feel extra-special-fucked-up when you think of how long you were pale because there was nothing else you could do, and how much emotional energy he’s spent on you in one way or another.

You couldn’t stop with him if you tried. And you _have_ tried.

“Hey,” he says, and presses his lips to yours for the merest instant. “You with me?” When you manage to nod - for all that you’re more experienced, KC has always been able to wreck you like this, to take you apart to your base craving for him - he rests his forehead against yours. His eyes are crimson and glow as brightly as yours ever did, and you have to close yours because the look in his is too intense. You expected a makeout session, maybe a quick pail, not all these feelings that you have no idea what to do with.

“Psi,” he says, but before you can say _what_ , he kisses you. It’s almost pale in how reassuring it is; in there is the memory of a thousand moments alone with him, of lingering touches and the way he scorched you inside-out the first time he kissed you, of the first time you wound up on the concupiscent platform with your heart in your throat and the crazy flutterings of hope. You press him closer to you with both hands and let yourself relax. You don’t need to feel guilty about this, or sad. You get to be happy. You get to be happy about _him_ being happy. You’d been living in such a state of miserable compromise for so long before he died that you had forgotten there was something else.

You have a newfound appreciation for him, is what you’re saying. He’s not the same person who left you in chains, you have to admit; grudgingly, you also have to admit that Dualscar probably has a lot to do with that. For all that you don’t like it, Dualscar is a good influence on Suf. He has Dolorosa to guide him and Disciple to tell him when he’s being an idiot and you to push and catch him, but none of the three of you have ever been very good at smoothing him down when he gets spiky. Somehow, Dualscar is good at that. And it _works_ , for now, with the three of you.

“Psi,” Suf says, and bites your ear. You yelp and attempt to look properly contrite. “No, don’t pull that, I know when your mind’s not on your work.”

You roll your hips and press up into him, watch the way he gets all drapey and unfocussed. “Make the job a little more interesting,” you say, and make inroads on the Getting Your Matesprit Naked endeavour so you can scrape your claws along his grubleg scars. He shivers and gasps against your cheek, a helpless rush of air that drags through your body. “Yeah, that’s working.”

“You,” Suf informs you, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on your shirt, “are the literal worst.” You sneak a kiss while he tries to work your shirt off your shoulders, lave your tongue along his lip until he loses track of the task at hand and pulls you closer instead. He’s warm against you, despite your metabolism turning you into a walking furnace, and you can acutely feel every inch where his skin touches yours. When you suck on his tongue he whines and surges against you, a wave of motion that makes you break away for air. He follows and lays little biting kisses along your neck, like he can’t stand not being in contact with you.

You understand that. You’ve gone from being this - this _being_ , half-troll and half- _more_ , a network more than a computer \- to something painfully limited. You’ve had an entire ship routed through you - every impulse, from weapons to IMs - and been their hub, and then you died. You’re able to fake it well, this two arms two legs conversation-having sex-wanting nightmare, but sometimes you think that from now on, at your core, you’ll always be a system looking for reactions to analyse. Reality is too malleable here, and it’s too easy to slip back into being Helmsman, into the brainspace where you think faster than light and are more than you could ever be, constrained by this meat. 

You used to use sex as a way of keeping yourself anchored in your body instead of being swept along by the static voices of the damned. Now you use it to keep yourself anchored in your body instead of being swept along by the temptation of not having to interact with the dynamic range of the alive - for certain values of alive, anyway.

And you think that - no matter how well you’ve locked your longing down - Suf _knows_. He’s always saved you from yourself. You wish you knew how to tell him, outside of this; that he’s always been what you need, sex or no. Just him.

You close your eyes and press your face into his shoulder for a moment. You honestly intend for it to just be a moment, but then Suf grinds down against you and you have to moan instead, keeping your face there because you don’t have the willpower to move, all of a sudden. Your bulge isn’t out yet, but the sheath is already over-sensitive, and every time Suf rocks against you a new wave of dizziness hits. You like this slow buildup to being overwhelmed more than you have any right to.

“Psi-” Suf says, and it comes out rough with frustration. “ _Pol_. Let me take your _fucking shirt off_.”

“KC,” you giggle into his neck, riding high on libido alone and not wanting this to end, “ _Make me_.”

You forgot. You forgot, for a moment, that Suf isn’t just Karcin, awkward teen prophet extraordinaire, and that he has more experience than fumbling around with you and Panthe now. He stops moving and you draw back, just in time to see the deliberate look he gives your shirt and the way he comes to a conclusion; that, at least, is familiar - Karcin or Suf or anywhere in between, once he makes a decision, it is utterly and thoroughly decided.

Before you can suck in a breath and say - what, _no don’t actually_ , he sticks his hands through the sleeves. His nails aren’t sharp, compared to any other troll’s - he’s always filed them down, citing annoyance - but they pop through the fabric of your shirt with obscene ease, anyway. All you can do is watch, your jaw slowly dropping, as he _yanks_ , and suddenly your sleeves are a lot less cylindrical and a lot more ruined.

“Hot,” you breathe.

Suf rolls his eyes and pulls your shirt off, now that the sleeves aren’t keeping it in place, and tosses it into a distant corner. You can’t find it in you to mourn its passing, even though it was an excellent shirt. He slides his hands up your back and you lean forward, wanting more, only to be thwarted when he finds a pair of spinal jacks and his face falls.

“KC-” you say, before shutting your mouth. You’ve had this argument before and you don’t want to have it _now_. 

“I know.” He draws his hands away, reluctantly. “It’s just… different.”

He means _wrong_. He means, _if I was your moirail you wouldn’t be walking around like that_. He means _stop being a guilt-trip in the form of my best friend_. The part of you that’s learned patience and kindness and implacability knows that it’s going to take a while for you to mesh like you used to; the part of you that is selfish and narcissistic bites him.

“Uh,” Suf says, his tone overly cautious. “Pol?” You slick your tongue against the indentations you left with your teeth and he grabs you by the shoulders. “ _Pol_.”

“Not the time,” you mutter into his neck, before scraping your teeth along his jaw.

You expect a protest, sure. You don’t expect him to use his weight and throw himself forward, taking the two of you down to mostly-horizontal. You definitely don’t expect him to respond _positively_ when you raise your eyebrows and crook your fingers in the universal call of _have a go, then_. He scrapes his hands down your sides, bumping over your ribs, as he rolls his hips heavy and slow. “I can’t think of a better time,” he says, from a very long way away. When you try to push yourself up to get leverage and grind back against him, he plants his hands firmly on your chest and pushes down. “At least now you’re fucking _listening_ to me.”

If you can’t bring the mothergrub to the brooding cavern, you will damn well bring the brooding cavern to the mothergrub. You grab his ass and pull him down harder against you, relishing in the extra friction. “I always listen,” you assure him, and grin. “Sometimes you’re just _stupid_.”

“ _I’m_ stupid?” Distantly, you’re aware that this is bad and you are bad and for once Suf is probably bad too, but the pressure of his weight is keeping your bulge from unsheathing properly and it hurts too good for you to care. He drops onto his elbows on top of you and whines when you send a wave of psi through him before continuing, “I’m not the one - _fuck_ \- in love with being a _Helmsman_.”

You manage to bend your arm enough to get a hand between the two of you and slide it down Suf’s pants. _His_ bulge isn’t being trapped by a troll trying to fuck him into the ground through too many layers of cloth, and it tangles around your hand eagerly. “I’m not the one pretending that nobody ever changes,” you hiss, and squeeze.

“Fuck, _fuck_.” Suf bites you - not hard, more to stop himself from talking, you think. “Fuck _you_ ,” he eventually manages to gasp out in an attempt to salvage his words. “I’m _worried_ , you sack of bile.”

You raise your eyebrows and squeeze again. “You could try being my _friend_ instead of my _lusus_ then, asshole.” His thighs tighten around you and you groan. “A really good friend. One that will take off my pants.”

“Can’t,” he says, and digs his fingers into your grubleg scars. You reflexively jerk up into him and his eyes close as he tries to keep his breathing even. “Busy.”

You hear the door unlatch a little too late.

“Psi, I wan- oh.” Dualscar blinks at the two of you from the doorway of your respiteblock. “I’ll, uh-”

You blink back, look down at the mess you and Suf have made. Even without your hand down Suf’s pants, it’s damning. Your pants are soaked through and Suf has a smear of red on his stomach that must have somehow made it there by your efforts. Worse still is the bruise that has formed on Suf’s shoulder where you bit him; too nasty for an accidental hickey and completely in view. It’s one thing to expect quadrantflipping, but another entirely to see it in action in front of you.

Suf has completely frozen, and if he blushes any harder he is actually going to set things on fire. You do your best to subtly remove your hand from his pants and get a mortified, “ _Psi!_ ” in return, as well as a glare that makes you stop trying. Apparently helping isn’t your strong suit.

“Yeah, DS?” you say, and try to prop your arm up on part of the pile. Suf whimpers, and then, to your best guess, attempts to spontaneously disappear. “You wanted something?” you prompt, after a moment.

“Uh,” he says, flushing to his fins as his eyes dart to Suf and then the ceiling. You _know_ he isn’t this stupid; he’d either piss off if he was actually embarrassed or storm out in a huff if he was angry. He’s seen the both of you naked before, although not in conjunction.

“Would you at least _shut the door_?” Suf asks, strangled. You take the opportunity to flex your fingers, minutely, against his bulge as Dualscar snaps out of it and complies, only to get another death-stare as your reward.

“Lemme sit up,” you say, and completely ignore his protests as you manage to push yourself up until you’re sitting with Suf in your lap again, your hand well and truly trapped by the way the cloth of his leggings has twisted around you. “That’s more dignified,” you comment, and push your hair out of your face.

Suf says, “ _gnnn_ ,” weakly and tries to hide his face in your shoulder.

“So,” you say, with manic cheer to Dualscar. “What was it?”

“I, uh-” Dualscar tries to meet your eyes before he gives up and stares at the ceiling again. You feel something savage and smug unfolding in you; it’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to look, just that he’s completely out of his depth. For all his experience, he’s no expert at the two of you, and his newfound morals mean that he doesn’t want to step in if he’s not explicitly welcome. You can work with that. “Dol wanted- Mai’s doin’ something-”

“Doing what?” you ask, and slowly begin rolling your fingers along Suf’s bulge. You still ache with need and it might be making you a little stupid, but you see absolutely no downside to this whatsoever.

“I’m going to _murder_ you,” Suf whispers in your ear. You can feel the tension in his legs as he tries to stay still, the minute trembling every time you squeeze and slide your fingers down. He gets slicker with every touch, his breath coming in pants against your ear; when you manage to stretch your fingers down to the very beginning of his nook, his breath cuts off in a choke as his hands tighten on your shoulders. Best of all, he makes an abortive move against you, trying to get your hand deeper before he can control himself.

“If you could _not-_ ” Dualscar says, in a voice that is almost begging you. “Psi, you fuckin’ shitheap, I gotta go _back out there_.”

You couldn’t have timed it any better if you’d tried. Suf looks up, probably to start apologising on your behalf, just as you finally manage to sink two fingers into his nook. He gasps and collapses against you just as Dualscar actually looks at the two of you.

“Sorry, what?” you ask, as you curl your fingers inside Suf, making him cry out. “Be specific.”

To your surprise, Suf clamps a hand over your mouth. “Stop talking,” he orders, almost but not quite fucking himself on your fingers. “I hate you, I am going to _end_ you, you psychotic sack of circuits, _why do you not understand that this is not the time_ -”

You lick his hand with both tongues and he pulls it away in disgust. “I realise you’re distracted,” you say, and smooth a thumb over his lips; he snaps at it and you smirk, “but you should see that DS is about to ruin his pants over this.”

Suf digs his nails into your back and pulls down, excruciatingly slow. You lose what you were doing as the pain flares along your spine and pools lower down, leaving you liquid and breathless. For all that you’ve flipped - or more accurately, that you’ve never really known what the two of you are in the first place - he’s never drawn blood before. You think that drew blood. You’re going to be disappointed if it _didn’t_. 

“Suf, you ain’t _helpin’_ ,” Dualscar says, in the despairing tones of a man who has given up entirely.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to be his-” he gasps as you resettle him on your lap, finally freeing your poor, abused bulge, “-his _fuckpuppet_ , Psi, _what do you want._ ”

You stop, just so you can look at him in disbelief. “I figured it was kind of obvious.”

He smacks the heel of his palm against your shoulder. “Don’t start.”

Thankfully - and you never thought you’d put these words together - Dualscar musters up enough scraps of willpower to actually do something. He kneels down beside the two of you, places a hand each on your chests, and pushes you apart. “ _Now_ talk,” he says, helpfully. “An’ please never make me have to do this again.”

Suf takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Yes. Right. We were arguing over Psi’s tendency to zone out into Helmsmanity and it- escalated, and then you came in.”

Dualscar looks at you, one eyebrow raising enough to tug at his scars. You look away. The two of you have experimented with Helmsmanesque roleplay before, but you’ve never mentioned it to Suf; partially because he still thinks of you as Pollux Castor instead of what you are now, but mostly because you compartmentalise, and sex-you-have-with-KC isn’t sex-for-dealing-with-Helmsman-shit. It’d freak him out. It _already_ freaks him out.

“I was being a normal troll,” you say, obliquely. “SF freaked out at my jacks.”

“He bit me!” Suf protests, and points to his bruise. 

Dualscar buries his head in his hands. “An’ the two of you decided to- to just fuck it out.” When Suf opens his mouth, Dualscar shakes his head. “No. I don’t _care_ , Suf, the two a’ you are accidentally conflatin’ gettin’ laid with problem solvin’.”

“You’d know,” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says, taking the wind out of your sails. “Right. You two can be as stupid as you want now. I’m leavin’.” He stands and grimaces at the state of his pants. “Discreetly.”

Suf scoots back into your lap, hesitantly, and rests his hands over the scratches in your back, his nails lightly scraping your skin. You still _itch_ for something black that you can let subsume you, so you lean in and trail kisses up to his ear, then say, “Beep.”

“Are you _fucking kidding me_?” Suf howls. “Dualscar, help me hold him down-”

“- _what-_ ”

“-I fucking _worry about you_ like _a good friend_ and you _taunt me-_ ” Suf slams you down into the pile again and crawls up you, ranting the whole time, “-get these fucking leggings off, you are putting your mouth to a better use, and if you suffocate, _you deserve it-_ ”

You rip through his leggings with psi and pull them off, tossing them at Dualscar since he’s there. “Worry about me? You fucking fuss and meddle, you’d think you’re my moirail-” You wrap your hands around his thighs and drag him the last few inches closer that you need to be able to bite just above his knee. He’s still wet as fuck from your previous ministrations and when the smell of him hits you, your stomach clenches with _want_. 

“- _leavin’_!” Dualscar yells, over the two of you. 

You both twist to look at him, although most of your view is blocked by Suf’s thigh. You then look at each other, and by means of shrugs and eyebrows, come to a decision. 

“Like fuck you are,” Suf says, with his usual tact and grace.

You helpfully add, “I need two people or it doesn’t feel right,” and wince when Suf whallops you in the shoulder again. “Come mediate the fuck out of us,” you say.

“You need _somethin_ ’ fucked out of you,” Dualscar grumbles, finally giving in. He moves out of sight and next thing you know, your belt is being yanked open none-too-gently. You get your revenge by kicking him in what feels like a shoulder in the guise of helping him get your pants off.

You lick your way up Suf’s thigh while Dualscar struggles with his own clothes, until Suf fists his hands in your hair and says, “If you keep teasing me I am taking my nook and going ho- _oh-_ ” His grip loosens and his head lolls back as you yank him down onto your face properly, rolling your tongue flat against his nook, keeping the split together. His genetic material smears across your face as he shudders, pitching forward until his hands are flat by your shoulders, his arms so tense they shake. “Can you even breathe?”

“Mm- _hmm_ ,” you hum, before splitting your tongue and putting your particular advantages to use. You don’t mean to brag (you _totally_ mean to brag), but the whole duality thing works out for you nicely.

Dualscar pushes your legs apart and you wrap them around him eagerly. You’re too keyed up for teasing and foreplay - which is why you’re torturing Suf with it, naturally - you just want something up your nook and you want it n- _nn yes_ , he presses into you in one long, slow movement that makes you moan incoherently into Suf, who tightens his legs around your head and rides you remorselessly in response. This is definitely in the top ten moments of your life.

“ _More_ ,” Suf gasps out, “Psi, get your fucking tongues _in_ me, I can’t-”

You squeeze his thighs and thrust into him - and you meant it to be a shallow tease, but Dualscar ruts up against you and startles you into meeting Suf’s demands before you get used to the rhythm he sets, a snap-grind-curl that you know from experience he can keep up forever. Every time he presses back into you, it jars you against Suf’s nook, leaving Suf the one whimpering like he’s getting fucked. He’s always been ridiculously responsive to getting his nook eaten, but this is a level beyond - you’re pretty sure that the itch on your cheek is his _genetic material_ dripping down your _face_. 

You let go of Suf’s thigh to try to wipe it off, but he flails at your hand and grabs it before you can, pinning it to the pile beside your head. “Don’t,” he says, between breaths. When you do your best to make a questioning noise, he smiles - with teeth - and rides you into the ground. “It suits you.”

_ Fuck _ . He’s taken classes in Being a Filthy Bulgelicker and Topping the Hell out of Your Fuckpartner while you weren’t watching, and you really wish you had been watching. You can feel the tight warmth of your orgasm gathering in every nerve of your body, stoked by Dualscar’s rhythm and hands and fuelled by the taste of Suf flooding you; it spikes when you realise that _you actually could_. Now that everyone is fully on-board with excellent quadrant-confused threesomes, you have full license to request ogling rights from time to time.

“Ngh,” Dualscar says, and wraps his hands around your waist to drag you closer. His fingers just brush the last set of your spinal jacks, and the feeling there flares enough that you sob. “He likes what you’re doin’, Suf-” Teeth find your grubleg scars and bite, abruptly, and you are stretched taut and fizz all over; all of your senses are so bright and sharp that anything could wreck you at the moment. “- could like him with his mouth shut.”

Suf laughs, a short huff of air, and you should probably feel affronted, so you stop tongue-fucking him and find the lips of his nook instead, before slurping your way up to the base of his bulge. It sounds _disgusting_ , but it also makes him wail out, “Fuck, _again_!” and leak more material over you, so you call it even and do as you’re told. He gives up on holding you down - not that you’re _going_ to move - and wraps a hand around his bulge, squeezing it in quick, uncoordinated movements as he rocks, jerkily, on your face. It is the hottest thing you have ever fucking seen, which makes you regret the need to close your eyes as he comes. You are going to need a shower. You are going to need _two_ showers.

You scrabble at his legs, because all of your airways have been well and truly blocked, until he rolls off you, and then scrub your face off - or most of it, anyway - with something from the pile while he’s still too fuck-blissed to care. You expect him to curl up and watch, but instead he shuffles down until he can wrap one of the forks of your bulge around his fingers and toy with it. Dualscar - almost as far gone as you are, for all that he joined late - yanks him up by a horn and kisses him desperately, and you’re almost surprised to feel the rumble of pleasure that comes from your chest.

Dualscar opens an eye and slants a glance your way, as if to make sure you’re watching - and you’re sure as fuck not staring at the ceiling - before sinking his teeth into Suf’s other shoulder, the one _without_ the bruise you made. He is pandering to your duality fetish. He is _pandering_ to your _duality_ _fetish_ by _symmetrically_ _marking up a fuck-blissed Suf_.

You lose the rhythm he’s set with a spasm of your hips that presses your bulge painfully through Suf’s fingers, and that throws you off enough to come, your toes curling and your fingers shredding up the pile. It’s over too quickly and you feel - hollow, insatiate, so despite your arms shaking you push yourself up to a better angle and bury Dualscar’s bulge deeper inside you. His arms go around you - by reflex, you think, from the surprised look on his face - and he spreads his hands over your back to support you, fingers catching in your ports and Suf’s scratches stinging anew. 

“Multiple fuckin’ orgasms,” he says, and drives harder into you. You snarl into his shoulder as the feeling of teetering over a very long drop rushes back. “Of _course_ you fuckin’ would, I’m guessin’ two’s the magic number-”

“Not if you keep talking,” you hiss, and his hands tighten on your back as you crush your mouth against his. _Yes_. This is what you _needed_ , all your life you’ve lived with this fucking _thing_ for twos and you never fucking realise it when you need to - but you need _both_ of them, Suf and Dualscar, Psiionic and Helmsman, both black and both red, for all that you don’t feel particularly red tonight.

You wonder how long this particular revelation has been building up. It feels like the longest fucking time - like you’ve been skirting the edges of it in disbelief and excuses, which, well, no wonder Suf was pissed. Being part Helmsman is fine; but not when you run the fuck away or get your hackles up as soon as Suf says anything. You need him to understand, too. And you need Dualscar to understand Psiionic, and you need to be _both_ instead of pretending you’re one or the other.

You still guiltily like the idea of favouring an aspect depending on your mood, but that’s nothing new, at least.

Dualscar drives as deeply into you as he can, his hands straining on your shoulders to give him every last millimetre he can get. You press closer until you’re as skin-to-skin as you can get, the relative chill of his skin making your overtaxed nerves scream. He’s close, and you’re not, but _almost_ , and you try to sneak a hand down to your bulge to even the playing field - only to have Dualscar grab your hand and yank it behind your back. This is becoming a _thing_ , and you’d screech at him for it if you had the breath.

“Can I-” his hands scrabble at your ports, and you groan as your bulge lashes, desperate for friction, “-Psi, fuckin’ - let me, it’ll be good-”

You realise what he wants, and - you’re not in the headspace for it, but it feels _right_ , and that counts for a lot, so you clasp your hands behind your back and say, “yes, _fuck_ ,” for good measure.

His demeanour doesn’t _change_ , exactly; he gets an edge to him that was always there but wasn’t obvious, the _Orphaner_ of Orphaner Dualscar, as he clamps down on your hips. He’s strong enough and big enough to stop you from moving, and with your hands behind your back, you’re entirely out of control. The knowledge sends liquid sparks down your spine and you instinctively try to move your hips, before you remember you _can’t_ and make an embarassing noise. You can already tell that this will be _so much better_ than the previous orgasm.

“Isn’t this better?” Dualscar purrs into your neck; his having control undoes you and that does good things to him, sets him in the stupid fucking highblood Admiral mindset that uses full sentences even as he lashes wildly inside of you.

“Yes, _fuck_ , Dualscar, _please-_ ” you grit out, everything below your waist pounding with need.

“Please _what_?” Dualscar snaps, and you nearly lose it then and there at the waver in his voice.

You forget Suf is there and that he’s going to flip out and you’re going to have to deal with it, your thought processes down to being able to deal with whatever is necessary to get you off properly. “ _Captain_ ,” you say, and are rewarded with a twist of his bulge that hits exactly where you need it to. “Let me - _fuck_ \- come, Captain, _please_.”

“If you must, _Helmsman_ ,” he sneers, and the word goes straight to whatever twisted part of your brain keeps all your issues warm for you and yanks. Dualscar has to prop you up while you go to pieces against him, dissolving into paths of light and the rushing sound of blankness. When you come back to your senses, you’re in a pool of gross brown-ish slurry, leaning awkwardly against Dualscar. He has an arm over your shoulder, almost but not quite a soothing gesture, and is using you to keep upright as much as you are him, if his breathing’s anything to go by.

You feel - exhausted, yes, but _good_. Empty, but not in the desolate way that heralds a downswing. You let yourself revel in it for as long as you can, cataloguing every twinge of every nerve from your horns to your toes, before you finally turn your head and look at Suf.

“Hey,” you rasp, and hold out a hand. He takes it and crawls a little closer, to your relief. The look on his face isn’t as bad as you were expecting; hurt, yes, but also slightly hopeful. You rest your forehead against his and let your eyes shut in exhaustion. “So, I’m an idiot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Suf says, ascerbic, and you can’t help the smile that hooks up the corners of your mouth.

“I’m learning to be less of an idiot,” you offer. Suf pulls away, only to take your face in both hands and kiss your forehead. You love him more than you thought you’d ever be capable of and he breaks your heart with the weight of relief that settles over you.

“This is touchin’ an’ all,” Dualscar says, and you think he might actually mean it, “but we have a problem.” Your heart seizes in your chest before he continues, “We need an ablutions chamber, at least two a’ us don’t have fresh clothes, an’ everyone downstairs is goin’ to be _acutely_ aware how thoroughly we just fucked.”

You reach out - no, _in_ a little, to what makes you who you are, and push against reality, the first time you’ve ever done this on purpose rather than by just drifting into another identity.

— twofoldAbolitionist [TA] has started trolling averseAttendant [AA] —  
TA: yo aa  
TA: thiink you can wrangle a dii2tractiion down2taiir2  
AA: 0f c0urse  
AA: mindfang’s still bleeding s0 it sh0uld be easy en0ugh  
TA: …  
TA: thank2 aa  
AA: n0 pr0blem  
— averseAttendant [AA] ceased trolling twofoldAbolitionist [TA] —

— averseAttendant [AA] started trolling twofoldAbolitionist [TA] —  
AA: 0h  
AA: c0ngrats 0n the sex  
AA: 0u0  
— averseAttendant [AA] ceased trolling twofoldAbolitionist [TA] —

You shake your head and pull back into your physical surroundings, where Suf and Dualscar are staring at you expectantly. You hope they realise how big a deal it is that you came back, that you’ve changed of your own will and effort even if they were right - half-right each on their own - that you control yourself now, when you haven’t been under your own control for as long as you can remember.

“Distraction arranged,” you say, and lever yourself up just as someone downstairs shrieks. “Let’s go.”


End file.
